“It’s always the one you least suspect,” he says sagely.

I glance at Gorelik, the hunchback. He is totally absorbed in forging a faultless smoke ring. If he doesn’t agree with Chatterton, he disagrees as silently as possible.

“If you’re not guilty,” Chatterton says, “what are you doing here?”

“I was kangaroo’d by a court with Abdul as judge and jury. Because he wants your daughter.”

“Valerie?” He asks as if he has a dozen daughters, and she was the doubleugliest of them all. “Why Valerie? He could have any woman he wants.”

“Because she’s beautiful and desirable and…”

“Funny. I never saw her that way.”

It was hardly the time to educate him about his own issue when another, far graver issue required his immediate attention.

“Why don’t you take your objectivity and give it a real workout?”

“What do you have in mind?” he asks warily.

“Send a wire—just state the facts—to the President, to the State Department, to Amnesty International in London—it’s got to be fast. Tell them that an American citizen is about to be executed on the dubious findings of a Coproliabad court. Hell, I’ll write the message, all you’ll have to do is hand it to one of Grady’s pilots on the next flight stateside.”

Chatterton hesitates. I put a steadying hand on his shoulder to pluck up his courage, to support him in his moment of decision. He slides from my grasp and studies the wall as if he might take instruction from it. His survey completed, he looks down again at his feet.

“Well?”

His eyes mirror his ambivalence.

“Can’t Valerie do it?” he asks.

I still haven’t heard from Val. But it’s not the time to share my benightedness with her father.

“Valerie is being watched,” I tell him. “They won’t even let her come visit me.”

“I don’t want to jeopardize my program. We’re on the cusp of something big. Gorelik’s been producing undulations you wouldn’t believe.”

“A life is at stake.”

He squirms, his face drained white with indecision. Again he examines the lava-like floor, looking for a patch of sand to bury his head in. For all his drive to incubate a revolution, to elevate the wretched of the earth with his fifes and drums and cymbals, here he is, shunning the chance to relieve the wretchedness of one incarcerated solitary. Perhaps he thinks that anybody comprising less than a plurality isn’t worth saving.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “if I’ve made you uncomfortable. And I hate being irksome. But I need help.”

“I’m thinking about it. Just don’t hammer me.”